joy

i will remember as i remember how to breath, the roof where we balance between the sun and the wind, your eyes reflecting my shiny bright blue shape because i am made of rainbows when i yell in between laughter and fear that you might let me fall. just jump. i will remember the hands catching me as i let go, the sheets laid on the roof so i wouldn't scar. the pillows so my head could rest. above all i will remember you pushed me up, that it was up you pushed me. up on the roof under which your room lays its warm walls around me and there is no water. and we drink until there is no more water, again. and we drink. i will write underneath your pictures, above them, on them. and with no water we will go on drinking. laughing so loud the neighbors will suspend life to breath it in. stretching between 1966 and 1986 a roof where we stand upon. for on the ground only grass, busy ants, and the pillars that sustain our roof between here and forever.